


His Heart

by Hay_Bails



Series: Brother, Dear [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Sherlock's Death, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:30:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attends his own funeral. Mycroft gives a eulogy. Set at the end of the Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

 

* * *

 

 

            “Sherlock liked to fix things. Even as a small boy, he fiddled around with broken toys, and later electronics, repairing them and improving upon them. That was the interesting thing about my little brother – he would never stop working with something until he had made it somehow better than it had been before. And as he grew, he transitioned from fixing objects to fixing people.

            “Of course, this did not make him an inherently good person. Sherlock had his faults, like any other human being. He was unsociable – as many of you are quite aware. He was proud.

            “However, the reason we are all here today is to celebrate a man who was kind. A man who was caring. A man who gave unconditionally, without ever once pausing to ask for thanks.” Here Mycroft paused, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at the corners of his eyes, playing his part remarkably well.

            Sherlock smirked at the feigned tears, rolling his eyes, though in truth part of him was rattled. What would Mycroft have done, had this truly been his funeral? Would he still have cried? Would he have been quite so eloquent?

            What would Sherlock himself have done, had the roles been reversed?

            He frowned and crossed his arms, leaning further back against the trunk of the tree to listen to the rest of the eulogy.

            Mycroft fluttered an apology for his faked tears, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Sherlock approved. It was a nice touch.

            “My little brother-“ he said, then cleared his throat. “My little brother was often criticized for being a machine.” A few scattered, broken laughs floated to where Sherlock stood. “In retrospect, Sherlock was anything but. He had a remarkable gift – Sherlock possessed the power to put aside his own pain and opinions so that he could help others more fully. Some saw this as inhuman. I prefer to think of it as more than human. I do believe that Sherlock understood the human condition in a fuller way than you or I could ever hope to achieve.”

            _The human condition. Pah._ Sherlock stood in the shade of his tree, watching the tiny gathering proceed. It was a small service – Mrs. Hudson had come, as well as Molly. Surprisingly enough, Anderson had showed up. Conspicuously absent was Greg Lestrade. But John… of course faithful John was there, right beside his grave.

            It was clever, Sherlock reflected, that Mycroft had not brought up his skill at the art of deduction. Even now, his older brother was trying to rebuild public faith in him. Even now, when all the newspapers called him a fraud. It was a subtle thing, and skillfully done. Sherlock nodded his approval.

            “That being said, I fear this understanding of humanity came as a curse rather than a blessing. Sherlock was forced by the nature of his chosen career path to use this gift dispassionately, without regard for his own feelings. This ostracized him from the general population, even from the police force, who saw him not as a man, but rather as a bloodhound, able to sniff out answers for them before returning obediently to his cage.

            “I’m sorry to say that much of this self-imposed alienation was partially my fault. I always taught Sherlock as a child that sentiment was something to be looked down upon. I see now that I may have been mistaken.”

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Mycroft had waged his war on sentiment for as long as he could remember – thirty years at least. Why should he turn his back on it now? The detective leaned slightly, eager to hear what his brother had to say in the way of explanation. 

            “As you may recall, Sherlock found reprieve just a few short years ago, when he met Doctor John Watson, veteran of the twenty-third Northumberland Fusiliers.”

            Sherlock watched as Mrs. Hudson squeezed John’s shoulder. John was quite obviously upset, but putting on a brave show for the sake of the people around him. Pity coiled around Sherlock’s heart like ink in a jar of water. _Oh, John…_

            “Doctor Watson,” Mycroft continued, “quickly became a source of solace and comfort for the wearied detective. He instilled in him a sense of life and vigor that I had not seen in years. In his much-beloved blog, Doctor Watson regales us with the tale of that mysterious figure Sherlock dubbed ‘The Woman.’ You may have read that at the start of the case, I summoned Sherlock and John to Buckingham Palace to debrief them, at which point they made a certain joke about the Queen.” A few knowing chuckles rose from the crowd. “Regardless of the fact that the joke was made at my expense… it was the first time I had seen my brother laugh freely in many years, and for that, Doctor Watson, I am truly grateful.”

            The elder Holmes paused a moment, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief once more. Sherlock was beginning to feel astutely uncomfortable. Mycroft didn’t seem to be acting any longer, and the implications of that worried him greatly.

            “Sherlock was able to help so many people over the course of his lifetime,” his older brother continued, fighting off more tears. “He helped me, and if you’re here today, he helped you as well – regardless of whether you believe in him or not.”

            Mycroft dug the point of his umbrella further into the ground, leaning on it slightly, as if to impart the weight of his grief onto the earth.

            “This is how I wish you all to remember Sherlock – as a helper, as a doer, and as a man who cared. And, before I leave here today, there is something I need to say – something that has gone unsaid for far too many years.” Mycroft turned to face the sleek black headstone.

            “Baby brother… I am proud of you.”

            Sherlock stood, too stunned to move, as Mycroft moved back into the crowd of mourners like a drop of black oil into a puddle. Molly, Anderson, and Mrs. Hudson each spoke, but they were quick about it, and the service was through shortly enough. A few mumbled words from a priest, and the empty casket was lowered into the earth.

            The mourners, excepting John and his brother, left after a time, one by one. Sherlock knew John would remain for some time. His brother stealthily joined him at the top of the small hill.

            “I told you not to come,” Mycroft said without much conviction.

            “…one more miracle…” John’s voice floated up to them from the grave.

            “How many can claim the honor of attending their own funeral?” Sherlock parried.

            “…don’t be dead…”

            Mycroft sighed. “Is it John you’re worried about? He’ll be fine, given time. Goldfish have a habit of forgetting.”

            “John is not a goldfish,” Sherlock said, a bit sharply, eyes never leaving the blond man at the bottom of the hill.

            Mycroft studied his brother’s face. “No, I suppose he isn’t.”

            John turned away, his soldier’s mask in place once more. The Holmes brothers watched him go, silent until the man had left the cemetery gates.

            “How much of that silly speech did you actually mean?” Sherlock asked after a time, curiosity getting the better of him.

            Mycroft brooded. “Brother mine, have you ever known me to say a word I do not mean?”

            “When it suits your purposes.”

            “And what do you believe my purpose here today was?”

            Sherlock considered. “To instill a certain faith in my memory. To ease my reinsertion into society, when that time should come to pass.”

            Mycroft’s face remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a deep sadness. “And when have you known me to have only one purpose to my actions?”

            Sherlock frowned. Could it be that Mycroft’s words had been genuine? Surely not…

            Sherlock studied his brother. His suit was, as always, impeccable and perfectly tailored to his body. His posture betrayed nothing. And yet… he seemed weary, somehow. He persisted in leaning ever so slightly on his brolly, as if that would help to distribute the weight of his thoughts and feelings. And his eyes…

            “Surely you don’t mean…” Sherlock trailed off.

            “We use complete sentences, brother mine. And don’t call me ‘Shirley,’ my dear Sherly.” he chided, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

            Sherlock brushed the joke aside, eyes widening ever so slightly.

            “Much as it might surprise you, brother mine, I actually do care about you. And being in front of that grave today… if you hadn’t been standing at the top of this hill, I fear I might have fallen prey to my imaginations.”

            Sherlock was stiff and uncertain.

            Mycroft chuckled darkly. “It’s my fault you shy away from such sentiments,” he said, voice soft as a cloud. “Would that I could have given you an easier childhood. Sherlock…” Mycroft trailed off. He cleared his throat, and looked away.

            Sherlock stared for a moment before regaining his wits.

            “We use complete sentences, brother mine.”

            Mycroft chuckled, looking up to meet his brother’s gaze once more. He brought a hand up as if to touch the younger man’s cheek, but hesitated. “May I?”

            Sherlock found himself suddenly unable to speak. He nodded apprehensively.

            Mycroft tenderly brushed his fingertips over his little brother’s face. Sherlock, without realizing it until after the fact, leaned into the touch, savoring the warmth and unexpected gentleness. Emboldened, Mycroft stood on his toes and leaned forward, pressing his lips to his brother’s forehead.

            “I mean every word I say, even the lies,” he murmured into Sherlock’s sable curls.

            Sherlock, for his part, was frozen, his brilliant mind seemingly unable to process what was happening. He made a noise, not quite a word, which Mycroft must have mistaken for a sob, because in an instant his brother was holding him, pressing Sherlock’s head into his shoulder gently.

            Mycroft smelled of sandalwood, a hint of sweat, and, oddly enough, peaches. It was not entirely unpleasant, however, and Sherlock found himself not wanting to leave his brother’s embrace.

            “People will talk,” he said reluctantly, after a long moment.

            “We’re at a cemetery. Two men hugging is not an uncommon sight,” Mycroft bit back. All the same, he took in a breath as if to steady himself, and let Sherlock go. The younger man immediately missed his brother’s warmth.

            Mycroft blinked, and instantly regained his composure.

            Sherlock had always envied that particular talent of his brother’s.

            “You’ll have food and lodging at my estate for one week’s time, during which you will study closely the remaining strands of Moriarty’s web. After that time, you will be flown to Eastern Europe, where you will eliminate any remaining members of his team. They cannot know that I am assisting you, you understand.”

            And just like that, the spell was broken. Sherlock nodded brusquely, and adjusted his coat.

            And Mycroft was gone, walking briskly down the hill, quick as the east wind.

            Sherlock lingered a moment, wrapping his arms about his torso – to ward off the chill, he told himself.

            He didn’t need Mycroft.

            Of course not.


	2. Chapter 2

            He needed Mycroft.

            To chide him, to scold him, to give him money for drugs so he could forget… he’d gladly take anything.

            Sherlock Holmes needed his older brother, and he knew it.

            He curled tightly into a ball in the wooden chair, papers and documents strewn about the table in front of him haphazardly. Sherlock couldn’t _think._ Emotions clouded his mind, keeping him from making any real progress on the case files that his brother had put together.

_The head of the web is almost certainly Sebastian Moran._

_John Watson thinks that Sherlock Holmes is dead._

            Sherlock threw a pencil against the wall, hard. The point managed to stick in the wallpaper, and the pencil quivered like an arrow hitting its mark. The detective focused his eyes on the wooden weapon, and collected his thoughts.

            _Where to begin? There are three men in Moscow who absolutely must die before a councilmember in Prague can be questioned._

_John Watson is grieving._

            Sherlock growled. He sat for exactly five seconds longer before standing quickly and violently, sending the table in front of him flying. It landed a meter from him with a crash. Papers fell like snow all around him.

            “You do realize that those are original copies,” a mild voice said at his back.

            Sherlock turned to face his brother with a start. Mycroft Holmes was silhouetted in a frame of yellow light, the library door open behind him.

            Sherlock frowned, but was secretly glad of the distraction.

            “You should know better than to give me original copies.”

            “I should know better than to give you copies at all, brother mine.” Mycroft gave a tut and moved to right the fallen table. It was heavier than he anticipated, and he puffed a breath or two before setting it back in its place. “This is an antique,” he said with a frown.

            “It’s oak. The odds of it shattering are regrettably low.”

            “Yes, and the odds of it taking a scratch or two after falling are regrettably high, dear Sherlock.”

            “It still seems to perform its function admirably enough.” Sherlock gave the old desk a kick.

            “I suppose it does, at that.” Mycroft looked his brother in the eye. “Can you say the same of yourself?” He placed one hand on the tabletop, running his fingers along a shallow but prominent scuff.

            Sherlock scowled.

            “Even the strongest of materials can break under the right circumstances, brother mine,” Mycroft said, voice carefully neutral.

            “I’ve reached my breaking point, have I?”

            Mycroft’s eyes ran over his brother. Sherlock was thinner than ever. Purple hollows under his eyes proclaimed his lack of sleep, and a slight tremor in his hands suggested that his younger brother had not eaten today.

            “Yes,” Mycroft replied simply. “I believe you have.”

            Sherlock turned his back to his brother, running a hand through his hair.

            “And what would you have me do about it?”

            Mycroft regarded his younger sibling sadly.

            “You’re worried about John.”

            “That isn’t an answer.”

            “No, but it is a point to sail from.”

            “I ask again, what would you have me do about it?” Sherlock swung back around to look Mycroft in the eye. “I’m dead, or have you forgotten? The dead do not associate with the living.”

            Sherlock swept moodily out of the library and into the hallway. Mycroft followed, unperturbed, his strides unhurried.

            “It seems to me that the dead have not eaten all day, or slept in near a week.”

            “Bugger off, Mycroft.”

            Sherlock continued his flight down the hall, finally coming to the room that Mycroft had set aside for him to use. He slammed the door in his brother’s face.

            Mycroft sighed.

            The dead obviously did not want to be bothered with the trivialities of living.

 

* * *

 

 

            Some time later, Mycroft returned to Sherlock’s room, bearing two cups of tea.

            “Sherlock?” he called. As expected, there was no response.

            Unbothered, Mycroft set the teacups down on the small table in the hallway, pulled a key from his pocket, and opened the door.

            Sherlock scowled at him from the bed, but refrained from saying anything.

            “I’ve brought you tea,” Mycroft said, gathering the cups back up and depositing one upon Sherlock’s bedside table. He sat upon the duvet next to his brother, taking a sip from his own cup.

            The room was dim – the only sources of light were the full moon outside the window, and the light from the hallway. Sherlock felt rather than saw his brother perch on the mattress beside him.

            “I don’t need tea.”

            “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

            Sherlock frowned. “Why do you care?”

            Mycroft took another sip of tea, and turned to face his brother. He set the half-full cup on the bedside table. “Would you believe me if I told you that I do in fact give a damn about your welfare, brother mine?”

            Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

            “You’ve said two impossible things today, Mycroft. Shall I phone your doctor?”

            Mycroft smiled ruefully. “I’ll be the one calling a doctor if you don’t eat something, Sherlock,” he said, not unkindly. “We can’t have you dying before making your grand reappearance.”

            Sherlock made a face, but took his cup from the table and took a long sip to appease his brother. He set the cup down once more.

            Mycroft smirked. “All of it,” he urged.

            “No.”

            “Despite your love of being contrary, Sherlock, I do have only your best interests in mind.”

            Sherlock’s stomach grumbled. The younger man looked mortified for a brief second, then angry, as if his body had somehow betrayed him. He glared down at his torso, as if a proper scolding would convince his innards that no, they did not in fact need food. Grudgingly, he picked up his cup and downed the entire drink, heedless of the scalding liquid burning his tongue. He replaced his cup on the side table with an audible _clink,_ wiping his lips with his other hand.

            Mycroft chuckled. “Oh, my dear brother…” he sighed. He found his cup, and took another small sip of his own tea. There was a short pause. “Did I ever tell you how worried I was about you, before you met John Watson?”

            “What? Why would you be worried?” Sherlock frowned. He could feel the warmth of the tea spreading through his chest and stomach.

            “You were reckless,” Mycroft said plainly. “You still, of course, maintain this trait to an extent. But John has given you something precious to care for.”

            “And what is that, brother mine?”

            Mycroft closed his eyes. “John gave you friendship, Sherlock.”

            Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. Why was Mycroft so… sentimental, all of a sudden? He tried to think of a response, and found that he was unable. His mind palace drifted, the doors moving farther off. He frowned. Why was his mind palace moving?

            “Soporific in the tea…” he muttered, shoulders sagging as he recognized the truth in the statement.

            “Apologies, Sherlock. You’ll feel better for sleeping, I can guarantee you that.”

            Sherlock tried to stifle a yawn.

            “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” he moaned plaintively. The drugs were doing their work; he could feel the lethargy spreading through his limbs like a lazy blue snake.

            He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Mycroft grimace. His older brother shook his head. “There is far too much at stake for me to leave you alone.”

            Sherlock did not feel well at all. He struggled to remain upright, every muscle in his body working against him. Mycroft had used a very strong soporific in the tea, hospital-grade; that was for certain. Belatedly, he wondered why he hadn’t tasted it.

            “Sleep now, sweet brother,” Mycroft said, almost sadly. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him slowly down onto the mattress. The younger man was helpless to resist.

            He would have been angry, would have been furious, but he was so _tired…_

            He curled into a ball, sinking into the soft surface. He tried to remain awake for as long as he could. Then he blinked once, twice, and it was all over.

            Mycroft sighed. “I’m so sorry, baby brother,” he said very softly, though he knew Sherlock would not wake for eight more hours. He reached over his brother and took a pillow from the bed into his hand. He caressed Sherlock’s hair tenderly with his other hand before lifting his brother’s head just enough to slide the pillow underneath.

            Sherlock unconsciously moved his hands to the pillow, grasping it gently. “John,” he muttered in his sleep, so soft that Mycroft almost didn’t hear.

            The older man smiled sadly. “If only John knew how much you love him,” he said. He bent over, and kissed his brother on the cheek. “My poor Sherlock.”

            Sherlock’s fingers twitched, but he did not respond.

            Mycroft watched him sleep for some time, his fingers trailing absentmindedly over Sherlock’s shoulder. Time was lost, in that small black room. Mycroft could not have said whether he watched Sherlock for three minutes, or three hours.

            All the same, it was still dark outside by the time he finally decided to leave the room. He gave Sherlock one more lingering kiss – he wouldn’t be able to again after this, he assumed; Sherlock would be too angry – he’d never let him near enough. He patted his brother’s shoulder, then stood.

            He collected the teacups, and made to leave the room. He stopped at the door, however, and took one last glance at his younger brother, curled up like a child on his bed.

            “May visions of plunder dance through your head, little pirate. Take what golden treasure you can, for there’s a storm ahead.” He looked down for a moment, and when he looked up once more, his eyes glistened with tears. “Sweet dreams, Sherlock.”

            And with that, Mycroft Holmes closed the door between them with a firm click.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is not Holmescest, though it might seem so to the naked eye. Please read with a grain of salt.

            Mycroft Holmes sat alone at the head of the table, neglecting to eat.

            Not that there was any shortage of food on the table in front of him – his place was laid with a roast duck, vegetable dumplings, quail eggs, and various pies, among other assorted goods.

            Sherlock had joked once, when they were much younger, that Mycroft ate better than the Queen herself. “I do, and it’s a good thing,” he had responded. “Perhaps if I eat enough for the both of us, my dear younger brother will not starve.”

            Even back then, Sherlock had refused to take care of himself.

            Mycroft sighed, troubled by the memory. He pushed the plate of duck away, for once not hungry.

            A serving boy rushed in, quick as a beetle. “Is the food not to your liking, sir?”

            Mycroft gave the boy a polite smile. It wasn’t his fault his employer was not hungry, after all. “The food is perfectly adequate, thank you.”

            The boy eyed the duck. “Shall I fetch another bird for you, sir?”

            “No, I believe that I’ll forego my supper tonight.”

            “As you wish, Mister Holmes.”

            The boy scuttled out of the room once more, eager to perform his job and perform it quickly.

            Mycroft frowned. They were scared of him. From the serving boys to the Queen, every last person was terrified of Mycroft Holmes.

            Everyone except Sherlock.

            And Sherlock… Sherlock hated him.

            Mycroft allowed himself a half second of grief, then stood, brushing imaginary crumbs of food he hadn’t eaten from his suit jacket.

            He walked briskly from the room, and found himself turning toward the courtyard. The sun was just setting as he entered the yard, sweeping past the elegant cream pillars of the portico.

            He strode to the covered bench in the center, and sat to one side, his chin in his hand. He should be in the library, he knew – Mycroft Holmes strove to keep to a precise schedule. However, today Sherlock was in the library.

            And Sherlock…

            Mycroft shook his head, and closed his eyes.

            The _look_ his little brother had given him, upon waking from his drug-induced sleep that morning…

            It was the most terrible face Sherlock had ever made.

            The detective had given him scathing looks before; of course he had. There had never been any true animosity between them, though. Any anger Sherlock displayed was generally feigned. It was all part of an intricate game the two geniuses played.

            The look on his face this morning, on the other hand… it had been a look of pure hatred.

            Mycroft breathed deeply through his nostrils. The most difficult part, he reflected, was that for once, Sherlock was perfectly justified in how he felt.

            It was not directly Mycroft’s fault that Sherlock was sequestered from John Watson for the time being, but he could easily see how Sherlock thought that his temporary house arrest was overkill. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reveal his continued existence to his old flatmate. He understood the consequences that would have, of course he did, but Sherlock had always been one to act first and address consequences later.

            It had been the drug, the soporific in the tea, which had broken the camel’s back. Mycroft grimaced.

            It had been years ago, but all the same, the memory bit sharp as a dagger. Sherlock had been twenty, Mycroft twenty-eight, when the younger Holmes had overdosed on cocaine for the first time.

            Mycroft finally had the opportunity to put his younger brother in rehab – or so he had thought. Sherlock, stubborn as ever, had run from the hospital once he had woken. He had hopped from drug den to dingy drug den, until Mycroft caught up to him six months later.

            It had been a soporific in the tea then, too, which had enabled Mycroft to sedate Sherlock long enough to deposit him safely into a locked room in the older man’s estate.

            _I only wanted to keep you safe._ Those were the words that graced the note Sherlock had found upon his bedside table the day after his brother had caught him. On the day the detective left the estate, Mycroft had entered the room seeking solace. Instead, he found a pile of ashes and a cigarette lighter in the place the note had lain.

            Sherlock had hated his older brother for drugging him then, and he hated him for it now.

            Still, it had to be done. If he had let Sherlock continue to work without sleeping, his baby brother would have turned into a fast train careening around a sharp corner. Mycroft was determined not to let him derail himself again. He had pulled Sherlock back into society once twenty years ago, and gods be damned if he wouldn’t do it again.

            All the same, it hurt terribly.

            Mycroft stood suddenly, and walked briskly back the way he came, through the portico, and into his estate. He swept past a maid who, if she had seen the droplet of water running down her employer’s cheek, at least had the good grace not to comment upon it.

            Mycroft made it back to his own apartment, entered, and slammed the door behind him. He sank to his knees at the foot of his bed, and sat on the floor, choking back more tears.

            _I only did it because I love you, Sherlock._

            Why, then, did it feel as though he was betraying his brother?

            The curtains were open. Outside, the stars were beginning to twinkle among the wisps of clouds leftover from the day.

            Another minute, Mycroft thought, just one more minute and he would get up and stop this foolish nonsense. Yet, a full five minutes had passed before he was able to fully stifle his tears. He stood stiffly, rubbing the moisture from his face with the heels of his hands. His eyes were swollen, he knew. He would have to rinse them with cold water before the video conference with the Cabinet later tonight.

            “Sentiment, brother mine,” a soft voice floated from the dark corner between the window and the bed.

            Mycroft froze, and took a moment to hastily gather his scattered thoughts.

            Sherlock peeled himself from his hiding place, and moved quiet as a cat to stand next to his older brother. Mycroft turned his face to the side, hoping to preserve at least some small amount of dignity.

            “It is unfortunate that you had to witness that display. My apologies.” His voice was the color and texture of rough gravel.

            “It seems to me we apologize too much for acting like regular human beings,” Sherlock replied in a neutral tone. 

            “You’re meant to be studying Moriarty’s web, not spying on your allies.”

            “Call it practice for the job ahead of me. Care for a smoke?”

            “Those things will kill you.”

            “I wish them the best of luck, as it seems I’m already dead.”  
            Mycroft huffed a dry laugh, and followed his brother out onto the small balcony. He accepted the proffered cigarette, lit it with his own lighter, and inhaled gratefully. The night air was cool, but not cold.

            “How go your studies?” he asked the younger man, politely.

            “Well enough. I should be ready to fly to Bulgaria in two day’s time.”

            “Bulgaria.” Mycroft puffed a cloud of smoke into the sky. “I hear the food is better than in London.”

            “The food everywhere is better than the food in London.”

            Mycroft laughed again, dry and brittle, and regarded his brother.

            “Good heavens, are you _still_ crying?” Sherlock was looking at him with a baffled expression. Mycroft frowned, and touched his cheek. Sure enough, his fingers met with dampness.

            “Apologies, brother mine,” he said softly, and reached into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. He dabbed delicately under his eyes.

            Sherlock looked uncomfortable for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision. He took the handkerchief from Mycroft’s hand and dropped it, letting it flutter to the ground one floor below them.

            “Sherlock, what are you-“ Mycroft was cut off abruptly as cold, pale fingers brushed against his cheek.

            “Returning a favor,” Sherlock murmured in response, as he caressed his brother’s face. He unabashedly took the half-smoked cigarette from Mycroft’s mouth, tossed it onto the concrete, and snubbed it out with his shoe. With his other arm he pulled Mycroft into a clumsy, awkward hug. The elder Holmes furrowed his brow in confusion, but dared not say a word.

            Sherlock was tall and lanky, it was true, but Mycroft matched him in height, and Sherlock’s warm breath brushed over his neck in a way that was not unpleasant.

            “I do not hate you, brother mine,” he said, voice almost at a whisper. “But do not think that you can change my ways with a cup of tea and a soft word.”

            Mycroft drew in a shuddering breath.

            _I am strong. I am England._

            _I will not cry._

            “What I do, I do for your protection.”

            _I will not cry._

            “What you do is well appreciated. But despite your efforts, you will not save me from myself.”

            _I will not cry._

            “I know.”

            Mycroft Holmes sobbed into his younger brother’s shoulder.

            Sherlock was gracious enough not to coddle him with soft words or gentle touches. He simply stood there, holding his brother as the tears dripped from the end of Mycroft’s nose onto Sherlock’s shirt.

            Mycroft at one point tried to pull away, but Sherlock, a step ahead, pulled him back. He placed a gentle hand on Mycroft’s temple. “The universe cannot turn us into gods, Mycroft,” he muttered softly. “We can only function so far as our humanity allows.”

            Mycroft forced himself to breathe.

            “I cannot allow your humanity to take you from me,” he said brokenly.

            Sherlock’s hand stroked backward from Mycroft’s temple, coming to rest on the back of his head.

            “Don’t you think cheating death twice is asking a bit much from the universe?”

            Mycroft buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s collarbone. “Do you think it will come to that?”

            Sherlock’s silence was all the answer he needed.

            He soaked in his brother’s presence for a bit longer, continuing to take deep, calming breaths. After a time, he pulled back. Sherlock let him.

            “Apologies, brother,” he said, looking down.

            “For what?”

            Mycroft smirked halfheartedly, and turned his face upward to gaze at the stars.

            “A pity you snuffed out that cigarette.”

            “Would you like another?”

            “No, no, one is plenty.”

            They gazed at the night sky together, falling into a comfortable silence.

            Some time much later, Mycroft walked back into his apartment without a word. He might as well go to bed; by this time he had surely missed his video conference. Sherlock followed him. The older brother sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes.

            Sherlock did the same, mirroring Mycroft’s movements.

            “Sherlock, what _are_ you doing?”

            His younger brother made no reply, but finished removing his shoes and sprawled across Mycroft’s bed, still clothed.

            “ _Sher_ lock.”

            “Just this once?”  
            Mycroft opened his mouth, and closed it once more.

            Their parents had been caring enough, but as boys, Sherlock and Mycroft had relied on each other for comfort, rather than their mother or father. Sherlock especially, who had been plagued by nightmares until he was eight, would often find himself in his older brother’s bed in the wee hours of the morning.

            _Just this once,_ he would always say. And Mycroft had let him stay, every time, holding him and shielding him from whatever nightmares came his way.

            That, however, had been thirty years ago, when they were still children.

            “Sherlock, I am a forty-six year old man.”

            “And?”

            “ _You_ are a thirty-eight year old man.”

            “And?”

            Mycroft regarded his younger brother. Sherlock’s eyes shone in the moonlight. “There are entire laws written about two males sleeping together in this country. And those males _not_ being blood relatives.”

            “And?”

            Mycroft sighed, and finished unlacing his second shoe. He stood up, and began to move away from the bed.

            “Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, sounding uneasy for the first time.

            “Unlike my uncivilized younger brother, I subscribe to the benefits of wearing nightclothes.”

            “Ah.” Sherlock relaxed back into the duvet. He stretched lithe and cat-like, unfazed by Mycroft’s subtle dig at his apparel.

            Mycroft collected his pyjamas from the wardrobe, moved into the bathroom, changed, and moved out again. Sherlock was curled up in the middle of his bed, perfectly relaxed but still alert.

            “You’ll need to move over if you want to stay.”

            Sherlock obliged willingly. Mycroft lay down a bit awkwardly and faced his younger brother.

            “This is absurd,” he declared after a few moments.

            “Just this once,” Sherlock said again.

            Mycroft laughed genuinely. “I can’t believe you still remember, after all these years.”

            “I don’t often forget.”

            “That you don’t, brother mine,” Mycroft agreed quietly, before the two lapsed into silence once more. Moonlight washed over the two of them from the window.

            Tentatively, Sherlock placed a hand on Mycroft’s arm.

            “You don’t mind, truly?”

            Mycroft sighed. “No, Sherlock. Gods help me, I don’t.”

            He could feel his younger brother’s smirk in the darkness, as Sherlock pulled closer. Mycroft rolled onto his back, allowing Sherlock to pillow his head upon his shoulder.

            In two days, Sherlock would fly to Bulgaria, to begin a journey that might very well be the death of him. In two days, Mycroft risked losing all that he had worked so incredibly hard to keep.

            Mycroft squeezed Sherlock tighter to him.

            “Just this once, baby brother.”

            “Just this once.”


	4. Epilogue

            It was a bit like dying, Mycroft reflected, as he walked beside Sherlock to the small puddle jumper. The plane would take his little brother as far as Heathrow, where he would board a passenger jet to Bulgaria under an assumed name.

            Sherlock played his part most willingly, of course. He had shaved his head yesterday to divert attention from himself. He wore jeans, runners, and a light button-up tee shirt – the perfect tourist. Mycroft thought he looked the same as ever, but Sherlock was a tried and tested actor. The goldfish saw only what they wanted, and if this tall, skinny bald man bore some striking resemblances to that crazy old detective who had taken a swan dive from the fifth floor last week, well, it was a funny old world, wasn’t it?

            All the same, Mycroft cast another worried glance at his brother. Sherlock looked straight ahead.

            It was like losing a limb.

            “You remember the number to call when you land safely?” Of course Sherlock remembered the number. He had an eidetic memory. Still, Mycroft felt that he ought to say _something._ This was the last time he might see Sherlock.

            Sherlock did not face his brother. _Obviously_ , he might have said, on another occasion. Instead, he assured his brother with a surprisingly gentle, “Of course.”

            “Excellent. I’ll see you in twelve months’ time.”

            “Don’t start any wars while I’m gone. I know how utterly _boring_ England can be without me to distract you.”

            Mycroft grinned.

            “On the contrary, brother dear, this might be the first year that Parliament actually accomplishes something meaningful.”

            Sherlock sighed, and turned to face his older brother. For a fleeting moment, he looked unsure of himself.

            “I’ll miss you,” he murmured.

            Mycroft’s heart tore in two. His mask of cordial indifference slipped, betraying his fear, his grief.

            “And… and I you, brother.”

            Sherlock’s eyes softened, and he took Mycroft into his arms for a fierce hug before his brother had a chance to argue. Mycroft returned the gesture.

            “If I don’t return…” Sherlock began, then stopped himself.

            Mycroft nodded, breathing in Sherlock’s soft scent. “I’ll tell John.”

            “Thank you,” the younger man returned.

            Mycroft gave him one last squeeze, trying futilely to impart his love for his brother in one small act. Sherlock squeezed back. They broke apart, as suddenly as they had come together.

            Mycroft’s mask was back in place. If he had seen Sherlock surreptitiously wipe his eye with his outside hand, he made no comment.

            “Safe travels, brother mine.”

            Sherlock nodded.

            Without another word, he turned and climbed up the steps onto the plane. Mycroft watched from a few yards off the runway as the little machine trundled forward and into the sky, carrying his baby brother away from him.


End file.
